


Dying Fire

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Brotherly Angst, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, hurt Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-06 20:29:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17946590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Arthur and John are still struggling to rebuild the bond they used to share. The bond they shared as brothers, as Dutch's sons. Arthur can't seem to forgive John for leaving, for nearly destroying the family he'd managed to build.But a new threat reminds the two just how much they need each other, and how far they'll both go to keep the other safe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TumbleSnout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TumbleSnout/gifts).



> Thank you so much for the prompt!! I hope this ends up being close to what you imagined!

Arthur had learned to deal with a lot of things from a lot of people. 

He’d learned quickly the complexity of Dutch’s mind, learned to admire him, love him far more deeply than he could ever love his real father. 

The rest of his family had taught him patience. It was a survival skill. Without patience he’d have lost his mind long ago. 

Arthur had learned to deal with the way Javier would play his guitar at odd hours in the night, gradually finding rarely achieved peace in his music. He tried to be patient with Bill’s anger, Sadie’s defiance, the way Karen would drink herself to cruelty she didn’t mean. 

He did his best to understand the way Charles would often stay silent in the background, closing himself off. He’d worked to understand Miss Grimshaw’s need for perfection, Lenny’s fear, Sean’s brashness.

Arthur was, most of the time, able to find patience with Uncle and the way he would find the older man dead to the world for days on end. Even Micah, who had absolutely no excuse for his idiotic behavior, Arthur learned to just ignore. 

He could deal with them, be patient with them, because he loved them. Despite their differences, they were family. Not family like he and Dutch, or even Hosea, but family nonetheless. He’d do anything for them.  

But if John Marston opened his goddamn mouth one more time, Arthur wasn’t sure he could stop himself from punching him in the face. 

“Jesus, Marston. Just let it--”

“No, what the  _ hell  _ did you just say to me?” 

And Arthur didn't know if it was because John was  _ just  _ that annoying, or if it had something to do with the stress that had been piling up since the Pinkertons had found him by that lake, but his carefully crafted patience was wearing thin. 

“I  _ said,”  _ Arthur snarled, spinning back around to face the younger man. “You might as well just leave again. Make everyone’s life a little easier.” 

Arthur kept his voice low, warning, hoping John would have the sense to see that he wasn’t in the damn mood. 

But John had never been the patient type, never one to control his anger. He took a step forward, Arthur holding his ground. 

“Are we seriously still arguing about this?” John demanded. “It was a goddamn  _ year.  _ I’m  _ back.  _ When are you going to get over yourself?” 

“It’s not about me,” Arthur shot back. “I’m not the one who left Abigail to raise a child by herself.” 

“She wasn’t alone!” John was shouting, always angered easily, and Arthur could feel surrounding eyes as their argument grew dangerously heated. “I didn’t...I left her  _ here!”  _

“Oh, I’m sure she loved that. You really think this is where she wanted to be? Without the father of her child?” 

“Why the hell does it matter to you?” John snapped. “We’re working it  _ out,  _ Arthur. I know you can’t get over it because everything  _ has  _ to be about you, but in case you didn’t notice, I came  _ back.”  _

“Like that’s changed anything,” Arthur said. “You still won’t even take your son on a goddamn fishing trip!” 

“Don’t see why that makes it  _ your _ job!” 

“Well, it’s gotta be someone’s job! I’m just trying to help the poor kid! His father clearly isn’t going to!” 

“Nobody wants your help, Arthur!” John took a step back, hands shaking, and Arthur began to genuinely wonder if this would come to blows. “You’ve never had a son. You don’t  _ understand.  _ So just leave me and my family alone.” 

John’s words turned to icy knives, tearing through Arthur’s heart, and any words of rebuttal died in his throat. Thinking he’d won, the younger man turned to stalk back to his tent. 

“Look at you,” Arthur muttered, just loud enough for the other to hear. “Running away like always.” 

The smartest thing would have been for John to ignore him, for the two of them to go their separate ways and cool off. 

But apparently John wasn’t smart, his anger only flaring as he started back towards Arthur, who realized the younger might really be about to hit him. 

Hosea was suddenly in between them with his hand on John’s chest, and Dutch was grabbing Arthur’s arm, yanking him backwards with so much force it was almost painful. 

“Will the two of you grow  _ up?”  _ Dutch was yelling as Arthur pulled his arm away. “Everything we’re facing and here you are, fighting amongst yourselves like a bunch of goddamn children! Over  _ what _ ?” 

John was still rigid against Hosea. “We--” 

“I don’t  _ care,”  _ Dutch snapped. “I just want it to  _ stop.  _ I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to hear it, and if you two can’t get over yourselves then you can get out!” 

“Dutch--” 

“Arthur,” Dutch warned. “I don’t want to hear your voice right now. I love you boys like you were my own, but I can’t hear myself  _ think.”  _

“Just go out and find us something to eat,” Hosea said. His tone was almost gentle, more compassionate than Dutch, but his face was drawn and his voice was strained. “I know we’re all on edge lately. Getting out will be good for you two.” 

“Are you kidding me?” John demanded, and Arthur had to agree. Wanting them out of camp was understandable, but forcing them to share each other’s company a moment longer would only end in a bloodbath. 

“Go,” Dutch ordered, no room for further argument. “And don’t even think about coming back until you can act like adults.” 

He turned without another word, shoulders tense as he made his way across camp, the spectators quickly turning to look away as he passed. Arthur could see their smirks and raised eyebrows. 

Well at least his predicament was somehow so amusing to them. God knows they needed the air to be lighter lately after what had happened in Valentine. 

“Do as he says,” Hosea said, moving to follow. “And please  _ try _ not to kill each other. Keep an eye out for Pinkertons.” 

Arthur only offered a scowl, knowing it was in no way the older man’s fault, and turned back to find the space beside him empty,  John already striding silently to his horse. Great. So they weren’t even going to try and be mature about this. 

Arthur, with no choice but to follow, hurried to catch up and unhitch his own horse, mounting and carefully riding out of camp with John stiff and quiet at his side. 

He sighed, trying to meet the younger man’s evasive gaze. “Look, let’s just...let’s just try to get something for Pearson and be back before dark.”

John shrugged. “Sure.” 

And that was the end of that. John showed no interest in saying anything else, content to be a lifeless wall for the entirety of the mandatory trip, and that was just fine with Arthur. If John wasn’t pouting and huffing a few paces away, he might have been able to forget the younger was even there. 

The further they dwelled into the new territory, deeper into the landscape surrounding the awful town of Rhodes Dutch was determined to work to his advantage, the more Arthur missed Horseshoe Overlook and it’s green, lively scenery. He almost missed the quaint little town of Valentine they’d been chased out of. 

Everything here was humid and dusty, red dirt swirling into the air under the disturbance of the horse’s hooves, spiraling around Arthur’s face until he was forced to squint through the clouds to make out where he was going. 

“Head into the forest?” Arthur suggested, desperate to get away from the glare of the sun. “All we have to do is be gone a couple hours and then we can avoid each other as much as we want.” 

John just shrugged again. “Sure.” 

“Christ,” Arthur mumbled. “I forgot how stubborn you are.” 

“Wonder who I learned that from,” he scoffed, and Arthur wasn’t sure if John was referring to him or Dutch.

They veered into the trees when the forest came into view, the treetops offering little protection from the scorching sun. Most of the plants were gnarled and dead, perfectly mirroring the atmosphere of Rhodes. The air was thick and heavy, and Arthur ditched his jacket, stuffing it in his satchel. 

They dismounted, still refusing to meet the other’s eye, both retrieving their shotguns from their saddles. If they were going to be stuck together, Arthur figured they might as well use the afternoon wisely. 

Since moving camps so suddenly, Pearson hadn’t stopped complaining about the lack of supplies and decent food. Arthur was sure he could have brought back a decent meal if he was by  _ himself,  _ but the way John was moping around and dragging his feet across the forest floor was going to scare away every chance they had. 

“Jesus, will you stop?” he hissed, John looking like he couldn’t possibly care any less.

“Stop what?” John asked, feigning innocence as he turned to finally look at Arthur. He raised his eyebrows, challenging, and Arthur wasn’t sure either of them were going to walk out of this forest unscathed. 

“Stop acting like a damn child! God, John...Just for two goddamn minutes, can you please--” 

“ _ Me?”  _ John was shouting again, back in Arthur’s face. His mind moved away from the idea of hunting, instead focused on keeping his hands at his sides, confident John would be on the floor with a bloody lip if he was distracted by his emotions. “I’m not the one who’s so determined to pick a fight over  _ nothing!”  _

Arthur wasn’t sure the two of them had ever fought like this before. They’d always bickered, especially when they were younger, but things were...different lately. Tense and uncertain ever since John had come back, and mixed with the new stress their worsening situation continued to bring, it was only a matter of time until someone reached their breaking point. 

But they’d been drifting apart for months now, the bond they had shared for so long beginning to dissolve, and Arthur found himself doing nothing but fanning the flames. 

“It’s not  _ nothing,  _ John,” Arthur said, talking before his brain could process his words. “It’s not...it’s...Christ, all this time and you don’t even  _ know?”  _

“The hell are you talking about?” 

Arthur's shoulders dropped, the conversation he’d never wanted to have now being dragged into the open. “You...I...I had…”

He never got a chance to finish, a gunshot echoing through the air, far too close for comfort. John was immediately spinning around, raising his gun, but Arthur wasn’t able to follow suit as pain exploded in his side, making him gasp and stumble backwards. 

“Arthur!” 

Arthur’s ears were ringing, and he blinked furiously to clear the spots dancing along his vision. He clutched his gun with one hand, pressing against his now bloody shirt with the other, wincing when he found the hole in his side where the bullet had clipped his skin. 

“I’m ok,” he said through clenched teeth, trying not to hunch over, fighting the urge to drop to his knees. Another shot rang out, and they both jumped as the bullet burrowed into the trunk of a nearby tree. “Jesus!”

He could hear the sound of approaching horses, indecipherable yells and laughter. They both dove for the trees, ducking behind the trunks as cover, Arthur sucking in air through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the warm blood seeping in between his fingers. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt like hell until he could get it properly taken care of. 

“You folks is on our land!” A voice rang out, and Arthur suppressed a groan. With O’driscolls and Pinkertons coming from every direction, a gang of entitled hillbillies was the last thing they needed. 

The thundering of their horses was echoing through the humid air, overtaking the forest, careless shots being fired into the air. 

“Sounds like there’s a lot of them,” John supplied helpfully, fiddling with his gun as he peered around his tree. 

Arthur nodded, briefly closing his eyes as he swallowed, the heat doing nothing to help him ignore the nauseating stench of his own blood. “Sounds like it.” 

Another shot rang out, closer this time, and it took Arthur a moment to realize it was John who had fired, downing the closest attacker, the man’s horse breezing past their cover with a frantic scream. 

Arthur tried to raise his own gun in preparation, but his hands were trembling slightly, slick with blood and sweat, and he scowled against his own uselessness, hoping John hadn’t seen. 

“Think you can make it to the horses?” John asked, concern genuine, all anger gone just like that. It took an attack from a crazed, territorial gang for them to act even vaguely civilized.

“I’m good,” Arthur assured, head clearing now that he had an objective. The horses were where they had left them, wild and panicked, and their one chance of escape would be caught in the crossfire if they didn’t move soon. “We need to split up. Meet on the other side of the forest. Get back here when we can bring backup.” 

John nodded, understanding, shifting in anticipation as he eyed their route. The rest of the attackers were getting closer, the gunshots louder, and Arthur pushed down his pain as he took a steadying breath. 

He met John’s eyes, the younger nodded, and they bolted. 

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The run to the horses was a heart-stopping moment of panic, John unable to hear anything but his own breathing as bullets whizzed through the air. Any one of the blind shots were capable of leaving a deadly mark if he was unlucky. 

Through his own frenzied haze, he could hear Arthur’s breathing, labored and heavy, and he knew it wasn’t from the strain of the short run. 

The shot had come out of nowhere, the attackers firing randomly through the trees. Arthur had been lucky. A few inches to the right and the bullet would be causing them much more severe problems. Arthur wouldn’t bleed out any time soon, he was fairly certain of that, and from what he’d seen the shot had gone clean through his side. 

The lack of a bullet in his gut didn’t mean it wasn’t painful, and John winced when Arthur’s breath hitched as he mounted his horse. 

John pulled himself onto his own saddle, yanking the reins of his panicked horse, turning in the opposite direction of the rapid gunfire. 

“Be careful,” he called, to which Arthur responded only with a nod as they diverged in their separate directions, tearing through the dry leaves of the forest. 

John tried to look over his shoulder and aim at any pursuers, but he was moving too fast, the branches and leaves scraping his face and shoulders in a blur of brown and green. He could still hear gunshots, but they were fading, and John could only hope they were losing Arthur as well. 

They should have stuck together. They needed to be able to keep an eye on each other, make sure they both got out, especially now that one of them was injured. The desire to get as far away from each other as possible had died the second the first shot had fired. 

But he knew, as reluctant as he was to admit it, Arthur’s plan was logical. Splitting up would hopefully confuse the other men, or at least lessen the number of people coming after them. And by the sound of it, most of John’s pursuers were falling behind. 

Either that, or they were all going after an already wounded Arthur. 

John shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the traitorous thought. He couldn’t afford to get distracted, not when Arthur was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. They would meet up on the other side of the forest, make sure they weren’t followed, and head back to camp for help. 

John was just starting to see the first streak of sunlight, the sign of an opening into the dusty clearing, when there was a scream of a terrified horse right beside his own, and something slammed against the side of his saddle. 

The layers of dead bracken and overgrown grass had masked the rider’s approach, giving John no warning before the two horses collided, sending John flying off his mount and skidding across the dirt, pain in his elbow flaring. 

His horse and the stranger’s were tangled together on the ground, whining and thrashing as the terrified animals struggled to stand. John rolled over on his back, catching sight of the stranger doing the same, and heard both horses flee in the opposite direction. 

“Gots you now,” the man snarled, on his knees with a pistol at John’s head before the other could begin to look for his shotgun. “You’s in our forest, boy.”  

Judging by the man’s broken English and the gleeful rage in his voice, John doubted there would be any reasoning with these people. Selfishly, he was beginning to regret splitting up more and more. 

“Didn’t realize it was  _ yours,”  _ John muttered, holding up his hands from where he lay on his back. He grimaced, sore and aching from the fall, his weapon nowhere in sight. “Look, you can let me go. I was just passing through.” 

More horses crashed through the trees, slowing as they approached the scene. John listened, still staring up at the treetops, as they dismounted. 

“I got him, boss,” the man with the gun said, and John craned his neck to see the newcomers. 

He could see five men standing above him, but he thought he could hear the snickers of a few more. Too many to fight against, weaponless or not, far too many to attempt escape. 

He was going to kill Arthur when they got out of this. 

The man John assumed was the leader stepped forward, weapon held at his side, peering down at John like he was nothing more than a defenseless child. 

The leader was tall and thin, shaggy mustache covering his upper lip, his face sunken and pale. 

“You picked the wrong forest to hunt in, son.” 

John snorted. “Clearly.” 

His anger was making him stupid, reckless, taking pleasure in the annoyance that flashed in the man’s eyes. Maybe he should try and learn something from what had gotten him into this mess in the first place and keep his mouth shut. 

There was a fist flying at his face, filthy knuckles hitting his nose before he had time to react. 

John felt blood on his face, holding back a pained groan as the hoard of men snickered and laughed. He blinked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, wondering if someone like Dutch or Hosea would be able to talk their way out of this. 

Before he had time to think, the handle of the lead man’s gun was flying at his already bloody face and the ground began to sink, pulling him under a blanket of darkness. 

  
  


John’s head was in agony when he awoke, slow and painful, but it faded quickly, his injuries far from severe. It seemed the men were more intent on being complete assholes rather than inflicting any serious damage. 

He peeled his eyes open, blood dripping onto the grass inches from his face, clenching his jaw in annoyance when he was able to make out the back of the horse he was slung across, the position causing a painful twinge in his neck. 

His hands were tied behind his back, his legs held together, a cloth placed firmly in his mouth and tied around his head. The horse he was slumped across was moving, its motions quick and frantic like it wasn’t entirely sure where it was going, and John tried to turn his head to see what on earth his kidnapper was doing. 

“Oh,  _ shit!”  _

“Just leave him!” 

“Get the hell out of here!” 

The voices were coming from all around him, urgent and panicked, nearly overpowered by the hooves of more horses and muffled shouts from deeper within the forest. 

And, John realized after a moment, the crackling of fire. 

His eyes flew open, the stench of smoke now making each intake of breath sting in his throat. He struggled against his bonds, the ropes holding tight, eyes watering as the air grew thick and heavy. 

There was nobody on the horse, the animal fleeing in a blind panic to get away from the flames. John thought he caught sight of a now abandoned campsite, the fire left alone to spread across the dry forest, no doubt the work of the idiots who were inadvertently burning down the forest they had claimed. 

It was closing in around him, trapping him. The flames grew, dancing in the corner of his eyes, the heat growing almost unbearable as the fire rose up around him, the horse never slowing. The gag threatened to choke him, the ropes on his hands seeming to become tighter. 

And then suddenly, he could breathe. 

The open air felt like ice, branches from the trees dragging across his face as the horse tore through the treeline and back into the clearing. John's stomach lurched when he felt himself falling, hitting the ground on his side. The horse fled, thankfully without trampling him, and John struggled to make it to his knees. 

The forest was painted with flames, bright yellows and oranges coating the already fragile branches, splitting the tree trunks and casting out any life. 

The fire was spreading rapidly, and John was still alone. He kept struggling against his bonds, panic rising until he felt sick, scanning the treeline as he waited desperately for any sign of life. 

Then there was the sound of an approaching horse, the racing hooves just barely audible over the roar of flames and the cracking of bark, and John slowed his fighting when he could just barely make out Arthur riding towards the fire. 

He was coming from the other end of the clearing, and John wondered how long the gang had ahold of him, how long Arthur had been waiting. 

John tried to relax, tried to breathe around the tight gag in his mouth, content in the knowledge that they were ok. They’d both gotten out in time. Their attackers were probably being melted alive in the fire they’d started. 

But Arthur wasn’t looking at him, couldn’t see John where he’d been unceremoniously dumped in the overgrown grass, still silenced and hidden from view. 

Arthur pulled his horse to a stop, scanning the trees in a panic, the flames shining in his wide eyes,  John forced to watch as the man’s fear only worsened. 

_ “John!”  _

John tried to yell, fighting and thrashing against the ropes, screaming until his throat hurt, everything drowned out by the fire Arthur believed he was trapped in. 

Arthur put a hand on his horse’s mane to calm it, his eyes still wild and searching, finding nothing as John did nothing but exhaust himself. He wasn’t even given enough time to try and make it to his feet before Arthur was covering his mouth and nose with his arm, pulling on his reins and riding into the blazing forest. 

John felt his world stop when he disappeared behind the flames. 

He was pretty sure his wrists were bloody with how hard he was fighting, kicking and pulling against the ropes, screaming from behind the cloth, praying Arthur would come to his senses and emerge from the fire any second now. 

But he didn’t. The clearing stayed empty, and the forest’s flames only continued to grow, hollow snaps echoing in the air as trees broke apart and fell. 

“John?” 

That was Dutch’s voice, strong and commanding over the dreaded crackling of the fire. John struggled to his knees as the man dismounted and raced forward, the relief making his eyes sting. 

“I’ve got you, son,” Dutch said, unsheathing his knife and crouching to John’s level. “I’ve...where’s...alright, just hang on.” 

His confidence was faltering, sparking into uncertainty when he saw John’s blatant panic and heard his muffled warnings. The gag was gone in an instant, and John barely gave himself time to breathe, Dutch moving to uncut his hands.

“Arthur’s still in there!” John shouted, watching as Dutch’s face fell and his work on the ropes sped up. “He went back for me, he--Dutch, he’ll die!” 

The ropes came free and John scrambled to his feet, Dutch already moving towards the open flames. There were more horses behind him, familiar worried voices sounding as Dutch barked orders, pulling off his coat and holding it over his mouth and nose as he ran into the collapsing forest.

John didn’t hesitate before yanking off his own jacket, not even bothering to dwell on wondering where the others had come from. Following  Dutch wasn’t even a question, and he ignored the protests from his gang as he ducked inside the flames. 

He barely made it a few steps before he ran into Dutch, hunched over in a coughing fit, still stubbornly stumbling forward. John put a hand on his shoulder and the man spun around to face him, eyes already watering from the smoke. 

For a moment he looked furious, like he was going to tell John to go back. But there was another crack of wood, the ground seeming to shake as another tree fell, and he could see Dutch’s fear clouding his judgment. 

“We need to split up,” John said, voice already hoarse from the heavy air. “We’ll find him, Dutch.” 

Dutch nodded, already starting forward again. “You head that way. Five minutes, John. Then you get out of here. Understand me?” 

John nodded, holding the cloth tightly over his face, wondering if he’d even be able to last that long. How long had Arthur already been inside, risking his own life for John’s? Time had become a blur, his panic growing with each agonizing second. 

“Arthur?” he screamed, the air becoming more and more suffocating. “Arthur! Where are you? Answer me!” 

But there was no answer, no call of hope, just the sinister cackling of the fire as it laughed and taunted, spiraling above his head in deadly waves. 

And then, just audible over the flames, John thought he heard the desperate scream of a horse, followed immediately by the nearby crack of more splitting wood. Gathering his waning strength, John clutched his coat tighter and followed the noises. 

The air was becoming dangerously heavy, smoke obscuring his vision and tearing at his throat. It felt like hours before he skidded to a stop, eyes landing on a scene that made his heart stop. 

Another tree had fallen, the middle of the trunk hitting a jagged rock, the bark splitting apart and separating. Beneath where the rest of the tree had been left to fall by itself, was Arthur, choking and gasping as the flames continued to spread across the fallen trunk. 

“Arthur!” 

John, forgetting his own pain as he hurried closer, dropped to a crouch beside Arthur’s soot-covered frame, wincing when he saw that most of the trunk was pressed into his side. Right against the gunshot wound. 

“Shit, Arthur,” John mumbled, sweat from the flame’s heat sliding into his eyes. “The hell is wrong with you?” 

Arthur’s face was stained black, his eyes red and watery. His gasps were as desperate as his futile struggle against the pressure of the tree, each breath rattling in his chest, weak and ragged. 

“J-John?” Arthur croaked, his voice awful and hoarse. John suddenly realized just how lucky he’d been to find Arthur when he did. 

“Hang in there,” he said, moving the cloth away from his mouth and pulling it over his hands. “It’s gonna hurt, but I’m getting you out of here.” 

Arthur coughed, winced, and let his head fall back down to the ground. But he kept his eyes open, watching John with panicked trust. 

The part of the tree that had fallen on Arthur wasn’t huge, but it had been too far away for Arthur to reach, if he would have even had the strength to move it off of him. John decided that might have been a good thing, the bark burning hot to the touch, even with the extra layer of clothing over his hands.

“Ready?” he called, not giving Arthur a chance to respond before he pushed, rolling the tree to the side.  

John didn’t have time to be gentle, even after Arthur cried out, arching up against the flaming bark of the tree. John knew it had to be agony for him, the weight slowly moving across his already painful wound. 

It didn’t take long until the tree was pushed a safe distance away, Arthur immediately trying and failing to sit up. John clenched his teeth against the scorching pain in his palms, pressing them against his shirt as he moved back to Arthur’s side. 

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Arthur’s arm and draping it over his shoulders. He cried out again as John dragged him to his feet, his breathing now nothing but wheezes. “You ain't getting out that easy. You still owe me a damn explanation.” 

John was struggling to pull in his own breaths now, the smoke wrapping around his neck and squeezing, melting his lungs, but he stubbornly kept standing, Arthur clutching his arm as he did the same. They were both running out of time, breathing in the smoke too long. 

Unfortunately, John had absolutely no idea where they were. 

In the frantic moment of seeing Arthur trapped under a blazing tree, John had raced forward without another thought, completely turning himself around in the process. Everything looked the same, broken and destroyed, the fire closing in on all directions. 

John pushed down his panic and moved without thinking. Like Arthur had done when he’d charged into the forest when he thought John needed him. 

He listened to the quieting, weakening breaths of the man he thought of as a brother, the man who was still willing to die for him. John picked a direction and raced forward, praying it would lead to safety. 

If not, he knew they would both die. 


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur wasn’t aware of much after seeing the forest go up in flames, after the fear in knowing that John was still in there, trapped because of him, set in. 

The heat had twisted around him, the smoke circling his neck until he couldn’t breathe, his cries for John silenced by his own coughs. The forest stayed silent, everything an overwhelming blur, his head growing heavy. 

He’d been too late. John was going to die, lost and alone in the flames of a fire, and it was Arthur’s fault. It had been his own temper, his unjustified bitterness towards John and his small, broken family that had gotten them here. And now John was going to die before Arthur had the chance to apologize, to explain, their bond forever left in shambles. 

And then he’d been falling, his horse leaving him behind. He hoped the poor animal was able to find a way out, the last coherent thought he had before the tree landed on his side, trapping him, and Arthur screamed. 

The sharp branches pressed into his side, digging into the bloody bullet wound, the pain wracking his body in unbearable waves of agony. It didn’t stop, only growing worse, the heat making him nauseous as the flames around him spread, edging closer. There was nobody to hear his screams die in his throat. 

But suddenly  John’s voice was beside him, talking frantically, blurred movements in the corner of his eye. He sounded angry, scared, but he was alive, and for a moment Arthur found himself believing they had gotten out. 

And then the tree was moving, tugging mercilessly at his wound, and the pain returned in a sickening flash. He wasn’t able to stop himself from crying out, kicking and fighting against the pain, searching once again for John. 

Someone was grabbing his arm, roughly yanking him off the floor, ignoring his cries and weak protests. They were moving at a breakneck pace, each step pulling viciously at the hole in his side. Arthur could feel the blood continue to seep through his shirt, his skin now damp and sticky. 

He couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt, the heat was unbearable, he couldn’t take it. Dark spots began to swim in front of the flames, and if it wasn’t for the presence at his side he would have pitched forward into the burning ground and layed there to die. 

But John, Arthur assumed it was John, wouldn’t let him. They were both far too willing to die for each other. If the mental image of John burning alive in the fire Arthur had trapped him in wasn’t scarred in his mind, the knowledge that their bond hadn’t been completely broken might have done something to set Arthur at ease. 

The ground stopped moving beneath him, John skidding to a stop, his ragged breaths making Arthur wince. Or maybe that was the sound of his own breathing. It was hard to tell, nearly impossible to make out anything anymore. If he had the strength he would have tried to struggle out of John’s stubborn hold, to make the younger man go on without him. 

But he couldn’t, didn’t have the energy to even try. He was going to end up dragging them both down. 

“Arthur, we’re gonna jump!” He heard John say. They were both wheezing, struggling to breathe in the thin air. “I need your help, Arthur. Stay with me, ok?” 

And that was enough to get Arthur to keep his eyes open, to nod determinedly, despite his confidence that there was nothing more he would be able to do. He was dying, the smoke slowly squeezing the life from him. But if he could ensure it didn’t do the same to John, he would defy reality. Fight against his fading strength. 

John’s arms were suddenly around his chest and they were being thrown forward, the ground beneath them disappearing, and Arthur felt himself falling. 

He barely had time to wonder what the hell John was thinking before he felt himself hit water, the first wave rising over his head and sealing off the last of his air. 

Arthur couldn’t see how this was going to help them in the slightest. John couldn’t swim, something he had never let the younger man forget, and Arthur wasn’t in a position to keep himself from drowning. 

John was kicking frantically, spitting water, doing nothing to keep either of them afloat. Arthur’s head broke through to the surface, the air feeling slightly lighter than it had amidst the burning trees, but he still couldn’t breathe, his lungs constricting painfully, chest empty. 

But he did his best, his weakening exhaustion trying to pull him back down. He kicked against the water, slow and sluggish, just barely enough to keep the two struggling men from sinking to the bottom. 

They were slowly being carried forward, swimming with the gentle current, working to move as far away from the fire as they could. They were pressed close, clutching the other, gasping and shaking as they both held onto their one lifeline.

But Arthur knew couldn’t support them for very long. John had gotten them out, but the smoke had already done its damage, trapped Arthur for too long. He couldn’t  _ breathe _ , couldn’t get his lungs to work, and it had nothing to do with the water sliding down his throat. 

John still had a chance, though. It was the one thought that was keeping Arthur alive, kept him fighting. He could still save him. He just needed to keep his head above water for a little bit longer.

He was slipping. He could feel himself falling, sinking, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he gasped, struggled, his hold on John was loosening. 

But John’s grip was only tightening, his fight never slowing. He held tighter, one hand wrapped around Arthur, the other reaching out to grab something Arthur couldn’t see. 

They were pulled to a sudden stop, Arthur groaning when the pain in his side spiked, spreading through his failing body. He could feel himself falling away, losing his grip on the world, his chest tight.

“Jesus, Arthur! Come  _ on!”  _ But John still had some strength left. He still refused to let Arthur die. “Keep your eyes open and  _ help  _ me!” 

Arthur hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes, the peaceful darkness felt so natural. It was so much more appealing than the flames threatening to choke him. 

But John still needed him, and as always, that was enough. He blinked, face stinging from the smoke and the dirty river water, He could see John now, soaked, still covered in soot, clinging desperately to the end of a jagged rock beside the edge of the river opposite the destroyed forest. 

But John wasn’t strong enough to pull them both to shore, too stubborn to let Arthur go, struggling uselessly against the pull of the river. 

And Arthur, just barely holding on, managed a small, rattling gasp of air and reached out to push John forward. They worked together, fighting furiously against the forest that wanted them dead, Arthur doing all he could to make sure John made it to shore alive. The younger man never released his hold on him.

Even after John had made it on top of the rocks, collapsed on his side, gasping for air, he didn’t let go of Arthur’s arm, fingers digging painfully into his wrist. John yelled, furious and wordless, and he continued to pull, gathering impossible strength to drag Arthur out of the water and onto dry land. 

John was immediately hovering above him, his breathing heavy and eyes frantic. He moved to press down on Arthur’s chest, quickly sliding back when he was weakly shoved away, Arthur doing all he could to roll himself onto his side, coughing and struggling to breathe in the air his deprived body was finally permitted to have. 

John put a hand on his back, steadying and grounding, silent as they both worked on catching their breath. Arthur’s gasps gradually grew less desperate, the wheezes fading, his breathing eventually evening out. 

“You good?” John asked, and Arthur nodded slowly. He swallowed, the clearing of his head shining a new light on the horrible pain in his side. 

“I think so,” Arthur said, barely able to hold back a cry of pain when he shifted into a sitting position. “ _ God  _ dammit!” 

“You ok?” 

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Arthur snapped, too tired to even pretend to be angry. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just...give me a second. Thanks, by the way. For, uh, saving my ass. Thank you.” 

John raised his eyebrows, almost looking surprised that his actions were being acknowledged. Arthur laughed, soft and quiet, averting his gaze to the ground. They really had been cold to each other lately. 

“You think I would just leave you?” John asked. “I wasn’t going to just let you kill yourself like that. The hell were you thinking, anyway?” 

Arthur shrugged, staring at his hands, remembering how he  _ hadn’t  _ thought. He’d simply seen the fire, seen no sign of John, and acted. Charged in head first with no thought for his own safety.

“Figured you were too stupid to get out on your own,” Arthur said, trying to push away the memory of the crippling fear that had overpowered him. “Where were you?” 

“Tied up on the ground watching you lose your mind,” John said, and Arthur’s stomach twisted. Of course, the younger man had seen his panic. “You’re lucky, you know. The others showed up out of nowhere and Dutch--” 

He stopped, eyes widening, springing to his feet in a sudden panic. Arthur watched, heart beginning to race. “What?” 

“Oh my god! Holy shit, Arthur get up!” 

“ _ What,  _ John?” 

“Dutch!” John exclaimed, lost and panicked, and Arthur felt the fear returning. “He went in--we split up, Arthur! I didn’t see him, I--what if he--” 

“Alright, calm down,” Arthur said, trying in vain to follow his own advice. “Dutch knows what he’s doing. I’m sure...I’m sure he got out.”

John chewed his lip, still looking skeptical. But they both knew there wasn’t much they could do at this point. “We need...we need to go back and make sure, Arthur. Can you--are you ok to walk? I can go ahead and get help.” 

Arthur shook his head, gritting his teeth as he did his best to stand. John moved to help, offering his shoulder as balance, and Arthur didn’t object to the assistance. He almost couldn’t wait for the lecture Hosea or Miss Grimshaw would inevitably give him when they patched him up. 

“Come on,” Arthur said, gentle, trying to get his legs to obey him. “He’s probably just as worried as we are. Let’s start walking, we’ll meet up with them eventually.” 

They turned back to the river, moving to start walking alongside the gentle waves, both freezing when the unmistakable sound of a cocking gun echoed through the silent clearing. 

“Goddammit,” Arthur muttered, already able to guess who it was before they spoke. He felt John go tense beside him. 

“Well hello again, boy,” a voice said, and Arthur risked a glance at a tall, thin, mustached man standing a few paces away. “Didn’t realize you had a friend. Day just keeps getting better and better. Doesn’t it fellas?” 

It took Arthur a moment to register that the question wasn’t directed at them, instead at the other men moving to surround him and John, weapons aimed. 

“Sorry about your forest,” Arthur said, letting go of John and raising his hands. The younger man, reluctantly, did the same. 

“Sorry about that wound,” the man Arthur assumed was the gang’s leader replied. “But trespassers need to be taught a lesson.” 

“Trespassers?” Arthur repeated, trying to keep most of the attention off of John. “Kind of hard to trespass on a land that doesn’t exist, ain’t it?” 

The pleasure Arthur got from the anger in the leader’s eyes only lasted a brief moment. One of the men rushed forward with a growl, slamming the end of his gun into Arthur’s wound.

He wasn’t able to hold back his scream, his legs giving out beneath him as he fell to the ground, hands pressing against his bloody side. 

“Arthur! You son of a  _ bitch _ !” 

Arthur could barely hear John’s furious screams, but he had no doubt the younger was doing something stupid that would just put them both in more danger. John didn’t stop yelling, and Arthur turned his head, anger flaring when he saw two men shove the younger to the ground, pressing a gun to the back of his neck. 

“Get the hell away from him,” Arthur snarled, pushing himself off the ground, moving to get to his knees. “John--” 

He was effectively cut off by a kick to the face, the filthy boot forcing him back to the ground. He choked on his own pained gasps when he fell against his injured side, his blood seeping into the ground. 

“Put that one over there,” the leader said, Arthur squeezing his eyes shut. “Drown the other. Make his friend watch.” 

Arthur barely had time to register the man’s words before there was a hand grabbing a fistful of his hair, another clutching the collar of his shirt, dragging him across the rocky ground and back to the river. 

“Arthur!” John was screaming, and Arthur caught sight of him being thrown to the ground a few feet away, held in place by a man behind him. “Stop! Stop,  _ please! _ Let him go! Let  _ go  _ of him!”

And if Arthur wasn’t currently being thrown into a panic at the realization of what they were about to do to him, he would have made some sort of joke about how John really did still care. 

And maybe the pain and fear was just making him giddy, but he found himself smiling. Despite their cruel words, they were still brothers. And in the end, this would hurt John more than it did Arthur. 

It was the last thought he had before there was a hand on his forehead, shoving him under the water. John's voice was still lingering in his ears, barely audible. 

“No!” 

He struggled against the stranger’s grip, despite the way it only worsened the pain in his side, instinct taking over as the river flooded his throat, the blue sky covered up by the water stained with soot and dirt. 

Arthur kicked out against nothing, the man crouched over his chest as he forcefully held down Arthur’s head. He raised his hands, slamming his fists into the man’s chest, clawing desperately at his attacker’s face. 

His punches didn’t seem to do much, but he felt a brief spark of hope when he heard the man cry out, Arthur’s nails digging into the skin under his eye, drawing blood. For a second, his hold loosened and Arthur thought he might be able to twist away. 

But then there was a second man, laughing as he grabbed Arthur’s wrists. He moved into the shallow part of the river, pulling Arthur’s arms above his head, stepping painfully on his hands. 

His fighting turned to desperate thrashes as his chest started to burn, a new fire sparking to life in his throat. His head was held firmly in place, forcing him to stare into the gleeful eyes of the man drowning him. 

Arthur was pretty sure he could hear John screaming, his threats turning to begging, terrified and furious. After they were done with him, after they left his lifeless body to float away and sink to the bottom of the filthy river, they were going to kill John. There was nothing he could do to save him. His struggles were weakening, his last bit of strength fading, body pleading for air. 

He thought he heard someone above him say something, the words distant and muffled, but the tone was cold and mocking. 

There was suddenly a hand jabbing his side, fingers digging into his wound, and Arthur screamed. It did nothing but let more water fill his mouth, let him drown faster, but he couldn’t help himself. And he couldn’t stop, the hand pushing deeper, the water around him morphing to a dark red. 

His vision was turning black. He couldn’t fight anymore, couldn’t keep his eyes open. The laughs and taunts above him were fading, everything masked by a dull ringing in his ears as everything began to slip away. 

The hold on his face loosened, and was gone. A second later, the boots left his hand, the water wavering, splashing around him, strange noises and voices swirling into the air he couldn’t reach. 

There was nobody on top of him anymore, nobody holding him down, but he still couldn’t move, couldn’t pull himself to the surface. He was too far gone to save his own life. Maybe it was for the best. At least this way, the pain was fading to the back of his clouded mind. 

He was almost content to let the man continue to drown him when he heard footsteps on the water once again, rushing towards his limp form. 

Someone grabbed his shirt, pulling him upward, yanking him out of the water and into the cold air. Water gushed from his mouth, running down his chin, his jaw slack. He was out of the river, finally in the open air, but that didn’t mean he could breathe. 

“Arthur!”

John’s voice was right above him, loud and frantic, dragging him onto dry land. There were other noises surrounding them, everything muffled like he was still underwater. 

Arthur was suddenly being lowered to his knees, John keeping him from falling on his face. He was pounding Arthur’s back, harder than was probably necessary, Arthur continuing to cough and choke as he threw up the river he had been forced to swallow. 

“God damn sons of bitches,” John was muttering, everything still sounding odd and distant. “It’s ok, Arthur. They’re dead. Come on, breathe. Breathe, or I swear to god I’ll kill you myself.” 

“He ok?” 

Arthur was fairly certain that was Dutch’s voice, but he wasn’t used to hearing the older man sound so scared and unsure. 

“No, he’s not ok!” John snapped. “They--” 

In between the coughs, Arthur was able to pull in a gasp, the first bit of air he’d gotten in far too long. It didn’t do much, and it hurt like a knife in his chest, but it helped begin to clear the heavy cloud wrapped around his head. 

“That’s it, son,” Dutch said, more gentle, but somehow just as comforting as John. “They can’t hurt you anymore. Just keep breathing.” 

It was a few more painful minutes before Arthur stopped coughing up water, until his breaths became something other than sickening gasps. He was eventually eased onto his back, John leaning him against his side, the younger man’s hold feeling almost desperate. 

Dutch was crouched in front of him, brow furrowed as he watched Arthur’s chest rise and fall. There were two other men pacing the riverside, and Arthur smiled when he recognized Bill and Lenny, standing over the now dead enemy gang.  

“You with us?” John asked. His hand was on the back of Arthur’s neck, cold and wet, and he nodded carefully, his chest still aching. 

“Y-yeah,” he managed, voice cracking and sore. But the pain in his side was coming back to him, worse than before. Arthur raised his chin to meet Dutch’s soot-covered face and worried eyes. “We...we allowed b-back home yet?” 

If Arthur didn’t know better, he would have thought Dutch was about to cry. His smile was sad, apologetic, but Arthur was sure the redness of his eyes was just from the smoke. 

“Of course, Arthur,” Dutch said, and Arthur had to fight from falling asleep right here and now, leaned against John’s shoulder, the younger man’s arm wrapped securely around his back. 

“Let’s get you boys home.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

John knew it couldn’t have been more than a minute, Arthur couldn’t have lasted more than that. Not with what they were doing to him. But it was the longest minute of his life, and one of the most terrifying. 

Somehow, it wasn’t as awful as watching Arthur charge into the fire for him. He supposed nothing would ever be as heart-stoppingly horrible as that, but it came pretty damn close. 

He’d been held there, watching them hold Arthur down, watched them torture him. He’d watched his friend--his  _ brother _ , gradually stop struggling, looking too much like a corpse when John had finally rushed to his side, pulling him from the river. 

Dutch, Bill, and Lenny had come out of nowhere, John too focused on the scene in front of him to see the others charging across the river, riding to the rescue once again. 

Dutch’s face was twisted into a furious rage, dismounting and shooting the man standing on Arthur’s hands in the face. He raced forward and practically tore the second man off of Arthur, slamming him into the river, holding his hands over the man’s mouth and nose. 

John didn’t give himself time to dwell on the sick sense of satisfaction the scene gave him. In the commotion, he managed to grab one of his captor’s guns from his belt. He shot one without another thought, Lenny getting the second as he slid from his horse. 

The leader had tried to run, exposed for the sadistic coward he was. John didn’t even know Bill could shoot that fast, emptying what was left of his gun into the man’s back before he even made it two steps. 

It had all happened in a blur, over in a heartbeat, and John was in the water, hooking his fingers in Arthur’s shirt and hoisting him upwards. He was pretty sure his heart stopped when Arthur didn’t respond, head lolling like a rag doll, water flooding from his mouth as John dragged him back to shore. 

But Arthur was breathing now, his coughs ceasing, shivering and leaning against John’s side, Dutch crouched in front of him. And if John was holding onto Arthur like he was terrified the other man might be ripped away from him again, Arthur didn’t seem inclined to complain. 

“Let’s get you boys home.” 

John and Arthur nodded at Dutch’s words, both soaked and shaking and exhausted, helping each other stand. Arthur groaned, pressing a hand to his side. Dutch rushed forward to help, hands unsure and unsteady, but he was quickly waved away. 

“I’m good,” he promised, earning a scoff from John. Arthur looked like he was about to argue, but his face paled, knees buckling, John and Dutch moving to steady him. “Christ. Maybe...maybe not.”

“Come on, son,” Dutch said, helping John lead Arthur to the riverside where the familiar horses were waiting. “We, uh, we found your horse but I don’t want you riding by yourself.” 

It was a testament to how bad Arthur was feeling when he didn’t even try to argue, just shrugged and nodded as he was lead along the rocky terrain. 

“John?” Dutch asked, quiet and concerned. 

“I’m fine,” John quickly assured. “They...they didn’t do much to me. Guess I was lucky.” 

He didn’t feel lucky. He felt shaky and scared, the feeling of being helpless like a punch to the gut. But Dutch simply nodded and told him to take Arthur’s horse back to camp. 

It was the worst ride of John’s life. He felt like an imposter riding Arthur’s horse, the animal understandably skittish, Bill and Lenny keeping a close eye on him as they rode at his sides. 

Dutch kept shooting glances at John, eyes soft and worried, checking for injuries. But his main focus was Arthur, riding behind him, arms around Dutch’s shoulders, and John didn’t blame him. 

“Almost there,” John heard Dutch say as they rode away from the forest, leaving the town of Rhodes to deal with the rest of the flames. “Hang in there, Arthur. They really did a number on you, didn’t they?”  

Arthur groaned again. “That’s putting it lightly.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Dutch said, pushing The Count faster. “Good thing you boys didn’t get too far. We’ll have you home in no time.” 

The trip felt like it took hours, time once again slowing, the world insistent on torturing John for as long as it could. But they made it back to camp in one piece, no more surprise attacks, and Dutch began to help Arthur dismount. 

“Need a hand?” Lenny offered as John gently pulled Arthur’s horse to a stop. He shook his head, carefully lowering himself to the ground, determined to steady himself. He wasn’t the one they should be worrying about, despite how sore and drained he felt, no doubt littered in fresh bruises.  

“Is he ok?” Sadie was demanding, leaving Pearson’s side as soon as she saw them arrive. Arthur had an arm hooked over Dutch’s shoulder, carefully being lead forward. “What happened?” 

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Mrs. Adler,” Dutch replied curtly, not even bothering to spare her a glance as they made their way to the tents. “Hosea!”

Arthur was lead into one of the tents, the two older men already easing him down onto a cot and peeling away his bloody shirt. John watched, hovering awkwardly in the entryway, wondering if there was something he was supposed to be doing to help. 

Miss Grimshaw was suddenly at his side, taking his elbow and leading him to a chair outside, insisting that she check him over, ignoring his protests.

“Good lord,” she was muttering, handing John a wet cloth to wipe the soot and blood from his bruised face. “Can’t you boys stay out of trouble for one day?” 

“Apparently not.”

John was fine, just as he’d insisted. No severe injuries to worry about. He was simply tired, achy, and plagued with a guilty conscious. 

Arthur looked far worse, and Miss Grimshaw’s worry was obvious. A traitorous thought in the back of John’s head told him Arthur wouldn’t make it, that he would die because of him. 

But according to Hosea, Arthur would be ok. That man digging his fingers into the bullet hole hadn’t done him any favors, but the wound hadn’t been too severe to begin with. The smoke inhalation had been what nearly killed him, the drowning only worsening his weakened state. 

But they had gotten out in time. They’d saved each other and made it home. With rest and clean air, Arthur would be fine. 

“Thank god,” John breathed, pushing himself to his feet. “How did...how did you know to come get us?” 

“Your horse came charging into camp,” Hosea explained, motioning to where Mary-Beth was washing the frenzied animal’s coat of blood and dirt. “Knowing your luck, Dutch figured something went wrong.” 

“Good thing he did,” John said, rubbing at his sore wrists. “They showed up just in time. I was tied up and I couldn’t...Arthur thought I was...he went in and I couldn’t--” 

“I know,” Hosea said, gentle, understanding. “Arthur told us. And he knew you were going to blame yourself like a fool. You did everything you could, and you saved his life. You did good, John.” 

John simply nodded, barely hearing him. All he could think about was Arthur’s face, the look of pure terror, the way he’d thrown away his own life for John’s. All because of some stupid fight he hadn’t gotten the chance to apologize for. 

“Can I see him?” 

Hosea nodded, stepping aside to motion him towards the closed tent, the small opening shining with the gentle golden glow of lantern light. 

Dutch was in the chair beside Arthur’s bed, still covered in black soot, eyes tired and red. Arthur was propped up on pillows, his torso wrapped in a clean bandage, his hair still damp and disheveled. The river had washed away most of the soot, and John suddenly felt sick. 

“Hey,” he said, swallowing when both men glanced up at him. “How, uh...how’s Arthur doing?”

“I’m fine,” Arthur said before Dutch had the chance. “And I can talk.” 

“Well you  _ shouldn’t  _ be,” Dutch snapped, and John felt himself grinning. “That smoke did a lot of damage to you. You need to rest.” 

“Could say the same to you,” Arthur said, his voice still cracking and unsteady, but already better than it had been on that riverside. “Gonna have to take a break from those speeches.”

“I’m not the one who ran into a fire,” Dutch argued. 

“Yes, you were.” 

“Well,  _ you _ went first.” 

John watched their gentle argument progress, feeling his smile grow, the weight on his shoulders and chest becoming lighter. They were all going to be just fine. 

The tent fell silent, and Arthur’s eyes landed on John. He seemed to understand what John was waiting for, turning his head back to Dutch. 

“You, uh, think I could have a minute with Marston?” Arthur asked, earning an odd look from Dutch. “You should get cleaned up, anyway. It’s been a hell of a day.” 

John saw the exhaustion in Dutch’s eyes, and the realization of what the older man must have gone through began to set in. He’d come out of that fire, alone, both John and Arthur nowhere in sight. They’d all gone through the same terror in that forest. 

Dutch’s hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts, his gentle smile making his chest warm. He squeezed John’s arms, looking back at Arthur before slipping out of the tent. 

The room was immediately dunked in heavy silence, both men shifting uncomfortably, no longer sure what to say now that the danger had passed. The panic was gone, Arthur was safe, leaving John with an aching uncertainty as the memory of what had started this in the first place resurfaced. 

“Will you sit down?” Arthur asked after a moment, shattering the silence. “Sit, John. You look awful.” 

John snorted, doing as he was told, taking Dutch’s place. “You clearly ain’t seen yourself yet.” 

They shared a smile, the air already lighter, and John wrung his hands in his lap, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say. Talking had never been his strong suit. 

But Arthur was speaking before he had the chance. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and John snapped his head up to face him. “Just for...I’m sorry for what I said. You’re right, it’s none of my damn business. I should have kept my mouth shut.” 

John shook his head. “No, it’s...you were right. About...about all of it. The whole family thing I’m not...I’m not good at it. And about leaving. I shouldn’t...I could have done it differently. I had to leave but...Arthur, I didn’t leave to abandon you. And I never thought we weren’t family, I just...Just because I wasn’t here doesn’t mean you stopped mattering to me. Any of you.” 

“I get it,” Arthur said, clearing his throat. “I mean, I don’t...I’m not going to pretend I understand. Because I don’t. But it’s your life, John. You do what you feel is best. I just don’t want you to forget what you have here.” 

What he was so willing to leave behind. The family he’d managed to get, Abigail and Jack, even with the life he lived. The words Arthur wasn’t saying. 

“You said it wasn’t nothing,” John added, and he didn’t miss the flash of emotion in Arthur’s eyes. “What don’t I know?” 

Arthur looked away, staring ahead at nothing, swallowing roughly. He stayed silent, his breathing still labored, and John thought he might refuse to answer. 

“Arthur--” 

“I had a son.” 

And John’s heart shattered at the words, so many things making sense all at once. “Oh, god. Arthur, I didn’t--” 

“Yeah, I  _ know  _ you didn’t know,” Arthur said. “I don’t blame you. We don’t...I don’t talk about him. It was a long time ago.” 

“What, uh…” he trailed off, almost afraid to ask, already knowing the answer. “What happened?” 

Arthur let out a breath, still refusing to look at John. “He died. His mom, too. Robbery when I wasn’t there.” 

“Christ,” John muttered, wanting nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear. “I never knew...I  should’ve...God, Arthur I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Arthur said. “I mean it, John. Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know. Dutch and Hosea, they’re the only ones who were...it...it was a long time ago. Like I said, I don’t really talk about it.” 

“But I  _ should  _ have known,” John argued without thinking. “Jesus, Arthur. I’m your brother! You should have told me, we--” 

He stopped himself, seeing the hurt in Arthur’s eyes the other man was too tired to try and hide. Here he was, once again putting all the blame on Arthur, even when this was clearly so hard for him.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, and Arthur shook his head. “I’m sorry, I just wish I’d known. I wouldn’t have said...those things. God, I’m such an idiot.” 

“Yes you are,” Arthur agreed, no malice in his tone. John’s chest loosened when he saw the other smiling once again. “But you’ve got a son and a woman who loves you. Don’t throw that away, John. Not if you think it's what you want. Ok?”  

John nodded. “Ok.” 

He understood. Arthur didn’t want him to just throw away what he’d had once. It was killing Arthur, watching John be so close to what he’d lost, watching him break it apart with every touch. Watch him not even give it a second thought. 

But understanding didn’t change what had happened between them, didn’t erase what John had said. 

“Listen,” he said, throat feeling tight. “What I said before wasn’t true. I was just--I was just angry. Jack...Jack really likes you. You’re good with him. You’re better than I am. I don’t...I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Arthur.” 

Arthur barked a laugh, immediately cut off by a fit of dry coughs, face screwing up in pain until it eventually died down. “You can start by actually talking to the kid. For god’s sake, John. A fishing trip wouldn’t kill you.” 

“I hate fishing.” 

Arthur scoffed, leaning his head back against the pillows. “Right. Afraid you’re gonna fall in?” 

“Jesus Christ. You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?” 

“Nope,” Arthur said, and John laughed, a real laugh, for the first time in too long. The tension was gone, the pressure on his chest finally lifting. 

“I saved your ass,” he muttered, and Arthur smiled. 

“You did. Thank you.” 

John blinked, taken aback by the sudden affection in Arthur’s eyes. “Yeah. Of course. Always.” 

Arthur chuckled, eyes slipping shut, smile still plastered on his face. “I got your back too, you know.” 

“I know,” John said, and he wasn’t able to resist the urge to reach forward and squeeze Arthur’s wrist. The other man didn’t react, and John thought he might have drifted off to sleep. 

“Hey,” Arthur said, soft and sudden, making John jump. “I’m  _ good.  _ Go get some rest. Be with your family.” 

And whether he meant Abigail and Jack, or the rest of the gang, John wasn’t sure. But he nodded, rising silently from the chair. 

“John?” Arthur called, and John turned back to face him. “I swear to god, I’m going to teach you how to swim. If it’s the last goddamn thing I do.” 

John laughed again, his bruised side aching from the movement, but he didn’t care. “Good luck with that.” 

Arthur smirked, eyes shutting again, breathing slowing as he finally slept peacefully. John smiled, knowing he had been right. 

They were going to be just fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thank you so much for the prompt, I loved writing this one so much! I have a couple of ideas for more Arthur whump stories, but I'm still always open to suggestions.


End file.
